The Devil's Due

Greetings! I hope you enjoy my latest offering. There's no sex in this opening chapter, just implied sex. I will make sure there's more sexiness and debauchery in the next installment. As always, comments with constructive criticism are welcome, but vulgarity and abuse will be deleted with no warning. Enjoy!

As he laid on the dirt hardpan, thoughts began to swirl in his mind- questioning thoughts bounced back and forth. And one certainty: I'm dying. Partial clarity flittered back to him, and he saw through squinting eyes that he was sprawled on what appeared to be a desert surface, baked mercilessly by the ever-present blazing sun. His mouth tasted of the grit constantly swirling about him, mixed even with the copperish taste of his own blood. He struggled to get to his knees then collapsed again on the sandy scorched earth, clutching his right side as if someone had slipped a knife between his ribs.

Someone kicked me, his mind barked as he lay on the ground, the sweat beginning to pour from his brow from a combination of pain and climate. He gingerly rolled on to his back and yelped once from the resurgence of pain in his torso. His eyes slammed shut at the glaring of the intense sunlight and he raised his left hand to shield the rays. Looking to his left, he saw the outline of mountains- massive mountains! It was then he realized that he was far from home. He mused that the only mountains in Michigan, if they could truly be called mountains, were the Porcupine Mountains. But those were over five hundred miles northwest of where he lived in Gravel City. No, these mountains, combined with the arid atmosphere, (Hot!) made him reason that he was quite a distance from his home state.

Events of the past came flooding back to him as he once more struggled to his knees, this time completing the miniscule journey with a slight scream as his side once again let him know he was not uninjured. Someone kicked me, he repeated in his mind as he sucked in air and more grit into lungs that felt like they were running at half capacity. Sweat from his brow spattered on the inhospitable surface in tiny droplets and quickly evaporated in the roasting heat. He put a hand to his head to wipe the moisture away and felt a series of lumps and contusions, one in particular that caused his hair and scalp to fold back. Blood covered his fingertips when he pulled his hand away from the gaping wound.

It was Erickson! He stated in his head as more memories came to him. He could remember the last day he saw home. It was Sunday afternoon, the Lions had just lost (again!), and he was walking to his car to get... something. There was something he was going to get from... (the store?) He could not remember what it was he was going to buy, but he did remember the sharp pain on the back of his head as he fell into the driver's side door of his GMC Terrain. He had placed his hand on the door to steady himself and remembered a black cowboy boot slamming down on the back of his palm causing him to fall to the cement driveway. That was when he felt the kick to his right side and a sharp prick to the back of his neck. Then... nothing...blackness... until he regained consciousness a few minutes ago in his new barren surroundings.

The sounds of the desert plain began to creep into his ears. The wind, as infinitesimal as it was, whistled slightly as it crossed the hardscrabble, every so often gusting enough to create a tiny whirling dust devil. A noise in the not too far distance alerted him to another creature. He assumed it was the rattle of a Western Diamondback, then confirmed the creature's existence as he spotted the lengthy reptile no less than twenty yards from his position. He endeavored to get to his feet and get moving before an encounter with the venomous serpent. He reasoned that a bite from the rattlesnake would certainly finish him off in his current state.

More pain cascaded through his body as he finally stood up from the sizzling ground and stood upright. Holding his injured side, he took in the landscape around him. He thought it would be quite beautiful under different circumstances. The sightline looked to him like a landscape painting as the mountains carved a purple and tan outline in the horizon. He spared himself one more second of gazing before shuffling his feet aimlessly across the desert floor in search of help. He was sure his attackers had assumed he was dead and left his corpse to be picked over by scavenging buzzards and other scant life forms.

The sun was directly overhead and was of no use to him trying to get his bearings on a general direction. He looked again to his right to keep a wary eye on the rattlesnake and saw that the slithering serpent had left its spot, but he could still hear the incessant rattle, now seemingly closer to him. When he turned his head back forward, he saw the offending animal not three steps in front of him, coiled and poised to strike. Fear washed over him as he tried to slowly back away from the deadly reptile, but with every step back he took, the snake uncoiled and matched his backward progress to keep pace with him.

He took a few more steps back and watched as the serpent moved with him, as if stalking him for the inevitable kill. He took two more steps backward then felt his heel hit something behind him. He tripped and landed hard on his buttocks, sending more sharp pains through his ribcage and he now coughed up a generous amount of blood. His eyes slammed shut for a moment and when he opened them to slits again, he saw the snake at his feet, its rattle waving in a blur behind its coiled legless body.

Just do it... he thought as he closed his eyes again, waiting for the inevitable puncture in his skin that would deliver the viper's toxic serum. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for the unwanted injection into his body, but still nothing came. As he prepared to open his eyes, expecting to see the snake's vertical pupils peering into his own dilated blackness, he felt the sun's rays on his face instantly cease and a coldness wash over him. Here it comes, he thought. Death.

He opened his eyes and saw a full moon nestled in a black sky with more stars than he had ever seen. The Milky Way was in full prominence, and he could even make out a faint nebula whose name escaped his overwrought brain. The snake had disappeared, in its place was a man. A man! He was dark skinned, as black as the immediate night sky minus the stars, and his white teeth sparkled in the moonlight as he smiled at the amazed form looking up at him. The man was dressed to the nines in a white tuxedo, complete with a black shirt, red bowtie and white bowler with a band that matched his tie's shade. A blood-red carnation poked from the pocket of the man's jacket, and he crooked his neck down to give the flower a quick sniff. A single petal fell from the carnation's bloom as the man's nose touched it and it fell silently to the cracked desert ground.

"W-where's the snake?" he said to the tuxedoed man, amazed at the hoarseness of his own voice.

The well-dressed man laughed as though he had never heard anything so funny in his life then answered the question posed to him.

"Snake? Ain't no snakes around here, son. Looks like just you and me, kid!"

"Who're you" he asked the figure standing before his crumpled body. "What's your name?"

"Puddentane! Ask me again and I'll tell you the same!" the well-dressed man exclaimed and laughed loudly again, his bellows echoing around them both.

He did not care for the suited man's joke, only addressed him as he had been told, "Puddentane, can you help me?"

The man in the tuxedo bellowed laughter once more then replied, "Oh, kid. You make me laugh. Name's Phineas." The man in the suit then reached into his jacket and produced a large bottle of water and took a long draught. "Can't be wanderin' around out here without some of this, right? Say, you need a drink, son?" He handed the bottle to the beaten man on the ground, and he drained it in three long gulps.

"Easy there, son," Phineas said as the man sucked down the life-sustaining water, "you gon' puke it back up if you're not careful."

He struggled to keep the cool water from climbing back up his throat and gagged once but kept the fluids in him. He laid back on the hard desert floor and croaked out his question again, this time using the moniker the man had related to him.

"Phineas, can you help me?"

"Why, didn't I just do that?" Phineas replied with a question of his own. He smiled once again then spoke once more. "Sure, I can help you, Sam. After all, that's why I'm here!"

"How... how do you know my name?" he asked puzzled as he struggled once again to sit up. "I... I know you..."

"Well, sure you do! And I know lots of things, Sam," Phineas answered with another toothy smile. "And I can help you. But let's talk for a minute or two. I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

++++++++++

"Sam, you know you're not going to win this one," the stunning redhead that he had been married to for thirteen years said sharply. Veronica never failed to stir his animal cravings, even now while she stood in the kitchen making her impossible demand. "I'm going to do what I want, when I want, and with WHO I want, got it?!"

"Yeah, I get it, "Sam said devoid of emotion. "You want to have your cake and fuck it too, is that the main point of this conversation?"

"Don't be so vulgar, Sam," Veronica retorted, as if she were completely faultless. "This is what it is. I am not leaving you. And I do still love you, in some strange way. But I need some attention, some action. And you don't seem to be willing to give me either one. So, Johnny stepped up!"

"And just how long has 'Johnny' been 'stepping you up'?!" Sam asked, suddenly annoyed, and enraged at his wife's admission.

"Oh, Sam," Veronica laughed as she answered, "you know the answer to that. You already know he and I have been sleeping together for almost a year now. Ever since your little... breakdown." Her voice inflected up at the last word, showing disdain for her husband's recent psychological episode.

Sam winced at her cavalier attitude toward her infidelity and her mocking attitude at his recent mental issues. His anxiety had finally caught up with him after thirty-four years of squashing his fears and cramming them down into a dark place that he thought the demons would never rise from again. But they did rise, and with a vengeance! After a particularly difficult day at work where he managed an auto parts manufacturing plant, Sam's internal demons reached up to the light side and dragged him down to their level. He sat in his office crying for twenty minutes before his secretary, Jeanette, called both Sam's wife and the local hospital after Sam told her he could not walk to his car to drive home.

"So much for 'For better or for worse' then, huh, Ronnie?!" Sam spat at his spouse, exacting a little revenge, and using the nickname that he knew would set her off.

"Don't call me that!" Veronica screamed and moved to slap her husband's face. Sam caught Veronica's arm in mid-swing and pushed her back firmly so that she bumped her back and shapely ass into the front chrome facade of the built-in dishwasher. A shocked look appeared on her face as she realized that her husband had gotten physical with her for the first time in their marriage.

"You bastard!" Veronica shouted at the top of her lungs. "You're gonna regret that!"

"Self-defense. Ronnie." Sam said as calmly and coolly as he could while his wife stared back at him with rage blazing in her green eyes.

Veronica steadied herself after the bump into the kitchen appliance and smoothed her short red dress with her hands. She tugged at the hem of the garment so that the tops of her black stockings no longer showed. She repeated her earlier threat, "You are gonna regret that, mister.

"What are you going to do, Veronica? Leave me?" Sam asked sarcastically. "Seems to me that you've already checked out, darling."

Veronica let a sly grin creep across her painted mouth. "Oh, I'm going to do more than leave you, bub. I'm gonna take everything you have and leave you twisting in the freezing wind. And I'll tell you another thing, Sam- you'd better grow eyes in the back of your head.

"Are you threatening me, Veronica?" Sam questioned the beauty walking away from him on four-inch heels. She responded without turning back around to face him.

"I'm not the one threatening you, little man. Not me..."

"What? No kiss goodbye?!" Sam said as he watched her walk seductively through the kitchen of their modest home and through the front door exiting the house, her curvy hips swaying back and forth as if they were bumping into invisible walls in a narrow hallway.

Sam couldn't help but watch her sexy backside bounce as she strode through the front door of what used to be their untroubled home. He cried no tears but, as was his modus operandi, internalized his grief, and pondered Veronica's cryptic threat as he heard the roar of the powerful engine of his wife's German sports car and the squealing of its tires on the white concrete of the home's driveway. Sam had never felt so utterly alone and had no idea where this turn of events would take his life. They would, indeed, take him somewhere that he never thought imaginable.

++++++++++

Two days later, Veronica tottered back into the home she had shared with Sam for over twelve years. She was dressed the same as when she had left, only drastically more disheveled. Her hair, normally stylishly coifed, was a rat's nest of orange-red straw. Her red dress remained but was wrinkled, as if it had just been drawn out of the hamper and had suspect stains near the bosom line that marked the adulterous actions of the previous weekend. Veronica wore no shoes, only carried the black stilettos by their backstraps tandem in her left hand. Her black stockings remained on her chiseled legs, both nylons had numerous tears and holes with more stains announcing her infidelitous forty-eight hours away.

Sam saw his rumpled and used wife walk into the living room of the home and nearly lost the salami sub and two hazy IPAs he had for lunch. He jumped from his seat on the couch and ran to the kitchen sink to splash some cool water on his face and take a quick slake to keep his midday meal from coming back on him. Sam stayed bent over the sink until he felt that his stomach would not turn again then turned to face his wayward wife.

"You disgust me," Sam said to his obviously well-used bride. "You look like Hell, and you smell like alcohol and sex. Are you drunk?"

"Maybe a little..." Veronica replied as she teetered on her heels. "Why? You want a little piece of this? There may be some left after Johnny and the others had their fill." She cackled as only a drunk would laugh and placed a hand on her hip trying to elicit an emotional response from her cuckolded husband.

"Veronica, you make me sick," Sam responded to her proposal. "I wouldn't touch you again if you paid me. Just get the hell out of here. We are done!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Lover boy..." Veronica slurrily answered Sam's demand. "If anyone is going, it's you. This is my house too, y'know."

Sam walked toward the front door and grabbed his jacket off the hook. He fished his car keys out of his pocket then reached for the doorknob. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. If you're still here, then I'm going to stuff your clothes in a garbage bag then stuff YOU in a cab. I do not care where you go after that, but you are not staying here. You brought this on yourself, Ronnie. I'm not to blame here."

"Remember what I said on Friday, Sammy," Veronica spoke with an inebriated accent as she grabbed for Sam's hand on the knob. "Better have your eyes open..."

"Whatever," Sam replied as he shook his wife's hand away and opened the front door, "like I said, fifteen minutes. Do not be here, Ronnie or I will take you out of here myself." He swiftly closed the door and made his way to his SUV. It was a brisk late autumn evening in central Michigan and the sun was setting quickly in the West. Shadows were non-existent, and Sam looked up when he realized the motion sensor light over his garage did not snap on when he crossed the beam's path. Why didn't that... was all he thought before the sharp blow to the base of his skull knocked him to his knees on the cold concrete driveway.

Sam placed his hand on his SUV in the driveway and immediately felt the heel of a boot smash into it. He dropped his hand from the vehicle and tried to scream in pain and for help, but a swift kick to his ribs took the wind out of his plea for help. As he tried to suck in a breath, intense pain radiated from his side where the boot had connected with bone. Punctured lung came to his mind as more blows rained down on him from unknown assailants. Sam tried to cover up the best he could to mitigate any more injuries, but the assailants did not let up until a voice, familiar at best, wafted through his buzzing ears.

"She told you, Sammy!" the voice said, hot breath flowing onto Sam's ear as he spoke. Two quick blows to the left side of his head preceded another kick to his injured ribs which confirmed both the broken ribs and the punctured lung as Sam coughed up a copious amount of blood through his mouth and nose. He faintly felt the needle jab into the back of his neck as the sedative was plunged into his bloodstream. The voice spoke again but seemed much farther away this time and faded before he heard its conclusion.

"You should have gotten out of the way, buddy. Now you're..." Sam lost consciousness before he heard the voice finish its statement. But he would later recall, through incredible and horrifying means, that the last two words were, "buzzard meat." His limp and battered body was carried to an inconspicuous grey van and thrown ungently into the back to stay there for the eighteen-hour journey to his would-be desert grave. Sam began to regain consciousness once during the trip and his eyes briefly fluttered open, but all he saw was a brief glimpse metal of the inside of the van's roof before another injection of tranquilizer knocked him out for the remainder of the trek to the scorching desert out West.

++++++++++

"Talk to me, Sammy boy! What you doin' out here in this terrible place all alone?" Phineas said as he stood above Sam's slumped form. The stranger's face and voice, as much as he could make out through his blurred vision, reminded Sam of Scatman Crothers, the old TV and movie character, but not as cherubic and warming. Phineas took another long sniff of his breast-pocket carnation as he waited for Sam to answer his question.

"Right now, Phineas," Sam replied as he crouched on his hands and knees on the baked desert floor gasping for air through his wounded lung, "it kind of feels like I'm dying."

This elicited a roar of laughter from the well-dressed unknown. Phineas nearly doubled over like he had never heard anything so funny before. "Boy, ain't that the truth?! You. Are. In. Sad. Shape, son!

"Phineas," Sam said as he struggled to look up at his new acquaintance, "I don't mean to seem ungrateful... but I could really use some more help, other than the water... And I'm willing to do anything to pay you back if..."

"Oh, you won't owe ME anything, my boy," Phineas interrupted the ailing man on the scorched dirt. "But there will be a price to pay, at some point down the road. Now, what exactly would you like from me, Sam-You-Am?"

"I could really use some medical attention before I die out here," Sam wheezed in reply to Phineas' question. "I'm not a doctor, but I think I have some broken ribs, a punctured lung, and some internal bleeding. Not to mention I'm quite sure I was heavily drugged for the past two days."